


Grace Has Nothing To Do With It

by isengard



Series: Graceland More Like Gayland [2]
Category: Graceland, Graceland (TV)
Genre: I have wasted no time defiling this fandom oops, M/M, crap basically, sigh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isengard/pseuds/isengard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike's assignment is going a little <em>too</em> well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace Has Nothing To Do With It

Mike is frozen.

He feels paralyzed, struck dumb and immobile, his breath caught in his throat. There's a warm press to the side of his face that's spreading like wildfire across his skin – a hand, _Briggs_ ' hand, cupping his jaw, thumb smoothing over his cheekbone, the drag of a callous across his unblemished complexion.

He shudders, and is relieved to find that he can still move.

Briggs' voice is low when he says, “You can stop me any time.”

Mike isn't sure how this happened. Five minutes ago they were all seated around the fire pit, shooting the shit, Johnny had tears rolling down his face at one of Briggs' stories, and then Charlie had given everyone a _significant_ look, something Mike wasn't able to decipher even after four months of living with her. He'd been ready to get up and head inside with everyone else, but Briggs'd tipped his beer to her and said he wanted to stay for a bit, and Mike had an assignment protocol to follow. So he'd stayed behind too.

Now Briggs' face is inches from his (how did their chairs get so close together? were they always inclined towards each other like this?) and he's smiling, mouth half-curved in a lazy, uncomplicated way, eyes shrewd and almost challenging. Mike sees the quirk of a dimple appear and disappear as his smile twitches, and his heart thuds unevenly. 

_Oh_.

It's a complicated mission, investigating Briggs. It should be easy, in theory, as his cover is just “Undercover FBI Agent Mike 'Levi' Warren Who Is Not Investigating A Superior Officer”. When he'd first arrived at Graceland, he'd wanted more than anything to stand by Briggs' side, be his partner, learn and do and succeed and grow all next to the man they'd all worshipped during their training. And he'd more or less gotten his wish. He knows what time Briggs likes to wake up (never), his favorite jogging path (Venice), the name of his childhood dog (Batman), how he likes his burgers (still cold in the center), how he likes his marshmallows (on fire). He knows that Briggs has a volume of Russian poetry on his bookshelf that he's read through over a hundred times, and that he never brings home any girls.

He says, “Is this why I never see you pulling chicks on the beach with the other guys?” He thinks it's the kind of thing Mike Warren would say. But these days it's hard to know whether he's still himself, or if he's just faking it.

Briggs smirks. There's that dimple again. “You keeping tabs on me, Levi?”

“Maybe a little.” That was one of the first things Briggs taught him: _Stay close to the truth. All the best lies have some truth to them_. Followed shortly by, _okay, the Movie's an exception_. “I'm an investigator. I pay attention.”

It comes out a lot more flirtatious than he means it to, but judging by the way Briggs' eyes drop to his lips when he speaks, and by the renewed fever that flashes through him as a result, that might not be such a bad thing.

Briggs says, “I've noticed.” His thumb draws a line along Mike's lower lashes, and Mike resists the urge to close his eyes, lean into it. “You're not the only one who pays attention.”

Is _this_ what they've been leading up to? Mike knows his supervisors at Quantico wouldn't ask him to do this, wouldn't necessarily approve – he's just an undercover agent, he's not a freaking _spy_ – but his instincts are telling him Briggs is showing vulnerability, that this is his “in”, and all he can wonder is if the push he's feeling to just _do it_ , the surge of elation taking root in his chest, is coming from _him_ , or from the person he's been pretending to be.

Frankly, it's been a while since he could definitively differentiate the two. He wonders if Briggs, with his years of training and practice, could tell him tell which one he really is.

They've been staring at each other for almost a minute now. Briggs' smile is still there, gentle, a little teasing. They're close enough that Mike can feel warm breath on his face, that all he would have to do is tip forward, and Briggs' lips would catch his. It's an intriguing idea. More than intriguing, actually.

He swallows.

“So, I'm just gonna tell you right now, I like a team effort when it comes to these things,” Briggs murmurs. Mike tastes the words in his mouth. “I'm not gonna push you. You can't handle it, no hard feelings. We're both adults.”

It sounds placating, but it's a test, Mike thinks, a dare. Briggs is on the level, and he wants Mike to meet him there.

Mike licks his lips. “I've never – ” he pauses. “I wasn't expecting this.”

Both dimples make an appearance as Briggs smiles wider, affectionately. Mike's stomach swoops and leaps, and okay, apparently he really _does_ want this.

“I had a feeling.” The pressure on his face suddenly lightens, and he realizes Briggs is starting to pull away. “Look, man, if you need some time – ”

Mike kisses him.

He realizes as soon as he does it that it's all wrong. His lips are pressed too tightly together, Briggs' mouth is soft and pliant where Mike's is tense and stern. It's actually a fairly horrible kiss, and he can feel how awful it is in the stillness of Briggs' mouth. He pulls back, embarrassed.

“Shit.” He fights the urge to get up and run back into the house. “Sorry. I ruined it.”

Briggs laughs. “Yeah, that was pretty bad.”

Mike fidgets, face still flaming, staring bitterly out at the ocean. He feels like he just blew a mission, jumped the gun and misfired like a damn rookie. It's just a _kiss_ for God's sake, it's not like he's never done it before, it shouldn't be any different than kissing his high school sweetheart, or the girl he dated in college. He doesn't know how to feel. Five minutes ago he didn't even know he wanted this, and now he's gone and screwed it all up. It shouldn't feel like a loss, but it does.

“Fortunately,” Briggs continues, threading his fingers into the back of Mike's hair, “you've got no where to go now but up.”

The second kiss comes before he's entirely ready for it, which turns out to be a good thing, because it means his lips are parted just enough for Briggs' lower lip to fit between them, for the tip of Briggs' tongue to press against his top lip, for a sigh of hot breath to slip in through his teeth and go straight to his head. He relaxes, dizzy, and sinks deeper into the kiss, swallowing a muffled noise of pleasure from Briggs, allowing himself to get tugged halfway out of his chair so that they're closer still.

It _is_ different, somewhat, than kissing a girl. Briggs' lips are chapped, there's no taste of flavored chapstick or sweet floral scent of shampoo or perfume, he's not yielding, he's _strong_. When he moans, it's deep and throaty and reverberates in Mike's chest like a drum, and Mike wants to feel it _again_ , wants to hold that echo inside him like a trophy. The scrape of stubble against his chin is new, a little painful. But the thought of waking up with his skin raw and red around his mouth, the thought of being _marked_ , sends an unexpected surge to his groin, and he pushes all the way out of the chair to tumble gracelessly into Briggs' lap.

Briggs breaks the kiss to adjust him, breathing hard and running his hands over Mike's chest through his shirt. “Easy, easy,” he laughs in a slow rumble. “I got you. No rush, if you're not – oh _fuck_ ,” he groans, tugging Mike's lip back with his teeth as Mike spreads his knees and grinds down. “Christ, you're a fast fucking learner.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, lowering his head to inspect the skin at Briggs' throat, to nuzzle and lick and bite at it, find out what Briggs likes, what he wants. “I am.”

Briggs lets loose a string of whispered obscenities that some time ago might've made Mike's ears go red, but that now make something switch on inside him, a buzzing warmth in his stomach, an ache inside his briefs. He kisses and sucks and nips unrelentingly, making up for his horrible start, making up for time he hadn't even known was lost until now. Briggs' hands tighten on his hips as they roll against each other – Mike is harder than ever just feeling his _grip_ – and every small noise he pulls from Briggs is a victory, a merit badge for a successful mission, a territory claimed.

The waves crash behind them. There's salt from the sea-spray on Briggs' skin, on Mike's tongue when he slides it back into Briggs' mouth. The fire turns to embers, and the embers to smoke, and when they stand up to go inside, Mike slips his hand inside Briggs', and Briggs leads him back to the house.


End file.
